Argent
by lithelies
Summary: Draco agreed to return to Hogwarts; he didn't agree to play the role of Head Boy. ( Dramione / Eighth Year / Post-DH AU / If there's a plot, it's purely by chance / Draco POV )
1. Chapter 1

**Saturday — August 1st, 1998.**

Draco should have felt worse about the shattered clock. But as the gears bounced across the floor and the flecks of wood skidded across the pristine white tiles, he felt nothing but relief. It flooded his chest and rested in his fingertips. The sound echoed through the mansion, the explosion then the silence.

The clock ticked too loud.

It always had.

He hadn't noticed it as a child. Hadn't thought to notice it, as it was such an innocuous relic from his grandfather. Blood seeped through the grout of the tiles like geometric spiderwebs. He traced the shapes with his eyes, empty silver drawn along the red.

"Mister," Tripley said as she popped into existence by his knee. Her great bat-like ears flared with surprise as she took in the splayed mechanism. "Oh no."

"Leave it," Draco said, his tone thin. "I meant to do that."

"But - "

Draco shot the elf a look, to which she stayed quiet. It was the sparse benefit of his father's eyes and brow, it drew obedience from the elves with no direct action on his part. She worried on the spot as if her feet were on fire. He watched as the blood began to dry into the grout, the thud of the clock drawn to a natural end.

"Master will be upset," she said, her hands bunched into knots.

"My father can speak to me if he has an issue with it," Draco raised his wand to banish the fragments of the clock. The hissed and bubbled as they turned white, sparks and bright edges drawn from the latent magic. The clock disappeared into nothing, enchanted heart and all.

Tripley had thick tears down her cheeks, her head dropped.

"Get out, Tripley."

And she did, no words. She obeyed him but she loved his mother most of all. Tripley loved dresses and parties. She was always the one to appear first at the slightest problem, a spilled drink or a broken quill. House pride drove her to perform, as she feared her newfound dresses and sweet trinkets would be taken from her if she did otherwise.

But everyone was on edge as if it were possible to be any other way.

He wouldn't linger in the war and the shapeless shadows. The house reeked of bodies and of blood, though the elves they had left had worked to clean it in their absence. They had gone to France for several months as they negotiated with the Ministry and they'd struck their plea bargain. That, coupled with the reassurance they would subsidize the repairs at Hogwarts, left them in a stable position.

Financially, at least.

Draco's throat tensed as he passed the drawing-room, still charred and fragmented from his aunt's breakdown. She had torn it apart when their prisoners had left. He didn't linger. He was so sick of lingering.

The curtains remained drawn through the entire mansion. It kept the heat out which lightened the load on the elves. They sustained numerous wards with their presence alone, like helpful parasites. They clutched to the magic of the Malfoy name, and in turn, they provided their unique strain of magic.

Which meant a new thread of twelve or so elves had arrived when they had, excited to replace the tiny dead bodies outside in the shallow graves.

Draco hissed through his teeth as he heard his mother scream somewhere in the distance.

He was with her in seconds. Apparition through the house was far easier than running, and she'd not left her parlor since they'd arrived back from France last month. As he expected, she was on her swooped settee in a bundle of her robes. Her hands were tiny clenched fists and her teeth cut a firm line as she thrashed.

He waved a hand and summoned a Calming Draught from their stores downstairs.

It took some maneuvering, but he woke her and worked the potion into her mouth. She buried her face into his neck and sobbed, shapeless words against his neck, apologies, a mixture he'd heard enough times to repeat if he needed to. She blamed herself for how things had shaped up, but Draco had been given much time to think about whose fault it was.

It was his grandfather's fault, initially. His pureblooded tilt saw him involved with the Dark Lord before the First Wizarding War, as they tore apart the government. He could go to great lengths about how the shortsighted dependence on blood as a point of pride led them into financial ruin and social isolation.

His father, of course, deepened that trench. A path walked on repeat through a valley provided the route. The path of least resistance, as it were. And when his father hadn't been good enough, Draco had been pulled into line, and his mother -

But he wouldn't lose himself to the cycle of blame.

This was the best they were going to get; traumatized but alive.

He tucked his chin atop his mother's head, his arms wrapped around her as she straddled the line between wine and a Calming Draught.

"I thought you were dead," she said, her voice thin.

"I wouldn't leave you."

She cuddled closer, her knees drawn closer, her head bent down so he couldn't see her cry. But he felt it, the shake in her shoulders and the shiver in her spine. She softened into him once the potion took and he sat with her.

"I can't go back," he said for the hundredth time.

"Oh Draco," she swallowed phlegm, a clumsy sound from a refined woman. "You're very sharp, very clever - but you must finish... You..." Her voice waned, her eyes drooped. "You must finish your schooling."

Draco didn't have the heart to explain to her that it was a ridiculous request; that school was useless and that even with the best grades in England, no one would want to hire him. He was hated high and low, he was reviled. He didn't want to pick apart his image for her sake, as she worried enough on his behalf.

"I'll visit if you want."

"Mother," Draco chuckled as the tension broke. "You may if it will make you feel better."

The corners of her lips flickered, a smile she wanted to share stuck behind torn muscles. She had been such a wonderful dancer before, but so much of her subtle grace and private charm had been stolen from her. His father had sought treatment for her from all sorts, but they weren't sure where to begin with her.

When she was asleep in her seat, he took his leave. It was a short walk to his bedroom from her favored parlor, as it was one of the few rooms that remained unused during the Dark Lord's stay. She had warded it and disguised the door, with all her most precious belongings crammed inside. Paintings of her parents, her favorite dresses, her jewelry. She kept her material possessions secret for that year as if it might make it easier to become who she had been before.

Draco had moved his bedroom since they returned to England to a smaller one nearer the Library. The view was obscured by large willow trees and it looked the least like his old bedroom. His parents had taken to a separate room, one each, and he left that for them. It wasn't for him to question or to examine.

If they wanted his input, they'd ask.

His Head Boy pin sat beside his supplies list for Hogwarts.

He picked up the monochrome pin, silver framed with black enamel indentations. He didn't deserve this. He didn't. It was a joke or a mistake or both, and he refused to accept it. He hadn't opened his supplies letter either as he hadn't thought he'd attend. He wanted to leave the place behind, to leave everything - but he couldn't.

Not after his Sixth year, where he'd failed at a task and suffered his mother's suffering for it.

And now, not after his Seventh year, where he'd tortured students for the amusement of teachers.

He could have pulled punches. He could have been brave and worked alongside Dumbledore's Army to resist, but his family was too close to the Dark Lord. If he misstepped, if his loyalty wavered, his parents would be dead. It wasn't as simple as Longbottom whose parents were shacked up at St. Mungo's or the Weasley girl whose father was already a target.

The Dark Lord was in his house, his family was at his mercy.

But there it was again, that cycle of blame.

It was his fault, he decided.

All his fault.

Draco dug his nails into the wood of his dresser, head dipped and shoulders tense.

How did they expect him to return with a fucking Head Boy pin on his chest?

**Monday - August 3rd, 1998.**

It was a month before school returned and yet people bustled all over Diagon Alley as if it were Christmas. They had been in hiding, he imagined, short on supplies or just eager to exist in the world they'd lost. He fought the urge to stare at the ground as he walked; he had been trained to walk with his head held high, shoulders back, chest out, confidence, confidence, always confidence.

And in part, he was grateful that he kept his head high, as it allowed him the foresight to avoid the Weasley mob. They were so loud and bright, as if unaware of how much space they took up. The mother especially was so wide and loud, how she'd shout at her children, no control. Draco hadn't had his mother yell at him in years, not since before Hogwarts. And yet they rolled like a pack of dogs, one over the other, laughter, slopping, with Potter and Granger in their midst.

It's difficult to pick out details given their pace. They seemed to be in a rush, wherever they were going. Granger looked quiet, withdrawn, which was strange given how loud she had been in school. But she'd looked like a bird when she'd turned up to the Manor several months ago, her collarbone sharp and her eyes bright. Perhaps his aunt carved that part of her away, he couldn't be sure. Potter was holding hands with the girl Weasley, smiles, laughter as if life had begun for them.

If they noticed him, they hid it well. The wide group vanished into that joke store the Weasley twins owned, though he had heard one of them died. He operated under the assumption people died unless he heard otherwise, it made it easier. If you hoped people had lived, you were let down on repeat.

Even as he sat with his mother at this small cafe, he remained straight-backed and proud.

"I hope your father is well enough to come out with us, at least once," Narcissa clacked her teacup down, a flash of dread as it made a sound. She'd never made a sound with her teacup in the past.

"I'm sure he will," Draco reached across to soothe her forearm, which was too thin beneath his grasp. She had started eating again at least, but not much. "It'll just take time for him to feel comfortable in public. I'm sure he misses you dearly."

Narcissa gave a tight-lipped smile, her fingers dancing against the tabletop.

Their lunch was a step towards society, which Narcissa had been so entrenched in several years ago. He didn't linger in the dark circles beneath her eyes or the way her lips twitched like she'd had a shock sent through her. She covered it most times, with a shift or a smile, but the fragmentation was easy to detect for him. He admired both his parents, in spite of everything. He still admired them.

He reached out to catch her hand, to thumb her knuckles and ease her shakes.

"Thought I saw him."

Draco fought the urge to duck his chin. He turned, head then torso, as he saw the ragtag trio approach. He'd spent enough years with them to pick their voice by ear alone, and he felt no great relief in his cleverness. It was a matter of time before he crossed their path, though he had anticipated their wide berth rather than a direct approach. He had underestimated the red they wore as scarves and blood, the act of bravery above all else.

Though he failed to see the bravery in a three-on-one approach while he coaxed his sick mother out of her agoraphobia.

"Expected you to be halfway to Bulgaria — not in Diagon Alley," Weasley laughed as if it were funny, though Draco failed to identify the joke.

"I live to disappoint," Draco said, a smirk spread across his thin lips.

"You can say that again," Weasley mumbled though he meant it with all of his chest.

"Ron," Granger said, her tone sharp.

"However, one can live in Bulgaria and still come to Diagon Alley," Draco's brow twitched with anticipation. "If one can Apparate — though if I recall, you failed the test, didn't you Weasley?"

"Actually," Potter cut in, as Ron made a few sounds of frustration. "I wanted to come over to say thank you."

Narcissa and Draco wore veiled confusion like it was hereditary, their lips both drawn down to fine lines while their brows raised.

"Just, for not calling us out at your house," Potter gestured to Draco, to then pivot his attention to Narcissa. "And for you, lying about me… About, me being dead. Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. You were very brave." He smiled clumsy, red nose and ruffled hair. He always looked like he'd stepped off the Quidditch pitch as if he'd never learned any other way to be.

Draco felt his throat click as he watched his mother burst into tears. It wasn't uncommon, but she usually kept it for when she arrived home. But she broke like a porcelain doll dropped from a window as she landed against Potter.

No one knew what to say, least of all Potter.

"It's okay, I — uh — " Potter patted her, again and again, rough hands against fine silks.

Draco's jaw tensed as he watched Potter pat her mother on the back several times, shy and unsure. He might just finish what the Dark Lord started.

When Narcissa drew back, she caught Potter's cheeks in her palms, to babble thanks over and over, to whisper how pleased she was that he was alive, for all that he'd done. It was too quick and messy to be words that anyone understood, but Potter seemed to follow her thread. Perhaps he was used to it, being the savior of the wizarding world. He no doubt had people rush to touch or hug him in the months that followed. The ever-popular Potter, who could never do wrong, who shot sunshine from his fingertips.

Draco stood, to catch his mother's elbow.

Weasley and Granger remained quiet, a small slice of relief amidst his mother's frantic words. She stilled and stepped away, to allow Harry his space back. Draco tugged her closer, to tuck her head beneath his chin. She gathered into him, a small work of art in how she folded so small.

The cafe felt suffocating, even as they sat on the small ornate terrace with black iron fences. All the furniture matched, either frosted glass or black iron. It felt the closest to home without being at home, as a nice midway point for his mother. And yet the three of them had stomped over to panic her — then to imply their gratitude meant anything. Draco held back the contempt, his gaze fixed on his mother's scalp rather than the three of them.

She unwound herself from him to sit, a crimped smile pushed at her cheeks as if she wanted to be anywhere else.

"You gonna pick up work at the Ministry?" Potter asked, unable to take a hint.

"No," Draco said, his tone long and bored. He rolled his gaze over the three of them, though Granger had the most bags. "I'll be returning to Hogwarts."

"They're letting you back in?" Weasley said, thick disbelief in his tone.

"They're insisting I return," Draco smirked as if he were pleased about it.

He watched them pivot, an immovable wall of sweaters and denim as if they had no clue that cotton or silk or even wool — as if they were still eleven, about to trip onto the Hogwarts Express.

**Tuesday — September 1st, 1998.**

Draco was on the train in seconds, to secure a carriage on his own. He hadn't let his parents attend with him, hadn't wanted them to. They instead opted for a drawn-out goodbye at their home in the foyer, wide staircases split up into the upper floors. He hugged them both, so tight that he could still smell the mix of their scents, rich perfume, and thick cologne.

But he didn't want them to come here, not with all the families, the faces. With their thin sentence, which wasn't a punishment really, Draco didn't trust people to withhold. They might speak of peace and forward-thinking, but people were vindictive and exacting. He didn't want to turn up to a mob, out for his family's blood.

It wasn't much of a choice; his parents refused to let him move on from Hogwarts without a certificate and he had missed the latter half of Seventh year. The first half hadn't been much of anything, not unless he was required to perform Unforgivable Curses on repeat through the rest of his life.

Draco had arrived far earlier than was required, which left dozens of compartments to choose from.

He walked to the midpoint of the train, given it usually sat closest to the exit at Hogsmeade.

He hadn't planned this far ahead.

He had thought the train would sling him out of the window or that Azkaban guards would be waiting by the train. He hadn't expected to be asked to return, or to be given the title of Head Boy. His life hadn't ever had a point beyond the Dark Lord. Even if he succeeded, he didn't expect to survive. Death and despair, he could navigate.

This warm spot of optimism — he felt like he was lined up for execution.

Waiting for the blade to drop.

A person didn't die immediately when decapitated. They had a few seconds, where their gaze would flicker or their face would contort.

The door to his compartment slid open as the cavalcade of Slytherins poured in.

Blaise, Theo, Pansy, Daphne — none had been spared from the return trip to Hogwarts, it seemed. He hadn't spoken to any of them but they didn't seem to care. They took to their seats as if it were any other year, as if they'd not lived through a nightmare several months ago.

" — which is why I refused to go with them!"

"You should have gone for the food," Theo said with a wave of his hand, his elbows set on his knees.

"I'm not going to Italy for food — what food do they even have there?" Pansy scrunched her face, her lips pouted and her gaze lost to the roof.

"It's Italy Pug, there's pizza, pasta, all sorts of wine," Blaise rubbed his forehead, a smile dug into his dark brown skin. It made his teeth flash like starlight as he wrapped an arm around Daphne's shoulders. She'd been busy with her cat, which had whined the whole way in.

"Lucius," she cooed as she pried the cat out of the cage.

"I can't believe you named your cat after my father — "

"I've always named my cats Lucius, don't make it about your daddy issues," Daphne cuddled the black cat to her chest. He burrowed into her as if she were a great wide blanket, warm and comfortable. "Yes, I know Lou, he's very mean."

Draco rolled his eyes to the door.

No one would mention last year, though it sat between them unspoken. Lucius had been the target for countless attacks by the Gryffindors, as pets were the easiest way to get revenge on each other. Draco couldn't count the number of pets that went missing last year. The Carrows had a hand in most of them, as tasks or as punishment. If you got too many detentions in a row, your pet was confiscated —

Draco never had a pet, per se. Just an owl, which didn't stay at Hogwarts any longer than he needed to.

The trip began, with the slow rock of the carriage and the conversation turned to Italy, about food, light things. Draco didn't weigh-in, he didn't have anything to add. He was still sure he had gotten away with something, that he wasn't meant to be here. It was all about to break, he could feel it.

The door slid open, to which the compartment turned.

"Malfoy, you're needed," a Hufflepuff girl said. She had blonde hair and big eyes like she was surprised she'd spoken.

"We aren't even at school yet," Blaise shot Draco a scandalized look.

"Needed for what?" Draco stood, his brow set.

"The Prefect meeting — "

"They let you stay a Prefect?" Pansy gasped, loud and throaty. "What the fuck, Draco! I got kicked out 'cause they said they didn't need Eighth year Prefects."

"I'm not a Prefect," Draco dug a pin out of his pocket. "I'm Head Boy."

The Prefect compartment had once been a place of absolute joy for him. It was like a dinner cart, designed for people to schmooze and roll between one another, to chat and to socialize, as if their position was a privilege. And it was in, part. They sacrificed their nights several times a week to do patrols and could alter house points. But Draco felt none of that excitement as he stepped inside, his school robes draped over his arm.

He hadn't had the space to change in his compartment and hadn't intended to change until they got to school.

And yet, here he was, Head Boy.

Bone tired and dark circles around his eyes, Head Boy, when he was quite sure his badge should read "Dead Boy" given the sprawl of glares.

And Granger, red-faced, red lined robes, brown hair, brown eyes — she's a slash of warmth in a sea of black.

"You knew you had to come here," she said, her voice level.

"I assumed the badge was a mistake."

Granger narrowed her eyes at him through the dim light of the carriage. The curtains were drawn low as if this were some secret meeting.

"Are you going to change?" She asked, her voice clipped.

"What, right in front of you?" He asked, a smirk smeared cheek to cheek. The room broke into thin giggles as she slapped down several pieces of parchment.

She's still too thin. He could see it in the strain of her neck or in her hands. They were bony and slim, too much like his mother's. He couldn't look at them for long, but there wasn't much else to look at. She had taken to the center of the aisle with her hands wildly in the air. She demanded attention, even if he was reluctant to give it.

"Now," Granger said as if she hadn't gathered their attention like candy in her greedy little hands. "While you have your elected Head Boy and Head Girl," she gestured to a Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff beside her, their chests matched with the same pins that he had, the same pin that Granger had. "Headmistress McGonagall thought that given the Eighth year, it would be best to have four Heads; a balance of power, a show of solidarity. Two from Seventh year, and two from…" Her voice trailed off as she met his eye.

"It won't affect much," she continued. "There's no Eighth year Prefects, as there's not many left of them anyway — but the double Head Pupil role will provide a means for each house to be represented as the school is pieced back together."

Draco rolled his eyes before he could stop himself, his finger and thumb framed against his cheek.

She noticed. He didn't have to read her to know she had, with how her hair bristled and how her shoulders squared.

By the time she ran through Prefect expectations and responsibilities, Draco had checked out altogether. He'd slackened back into his booth, long legs sprawled beneath the table as he picked at his cuticles.

"Could you pretend to care at least?"

"Oh, you're done," he said with a sneer. He stood, though he stood between him and the exit to his booth.

"Draco," she said, her voice as sharp as ever as if she expected to break through to him with strength. There was nothing to break through. He was just so tired.

"Hermione," he said, in a perfect imitation of her tone.

"You were chosen as Head Boy, and it comes with responsibilities."

Draco blinked down at her, lips parted with grim amusement.

"You have to try at least, to work with me."

"I don't, actually," Draco expression pinched around the corners. "I was chosen to be Head Boy, I didn't choose to be Head Boy. Even less, I didn't choose to come back here, I didn't choose to be responsible — "

"But you came back," Hermione cut over him, her little red face all the redder.

"I came back to finish my education, not play moral pillar in the school," he gathered himself before he pushed past her. It was too easy to do, she was so small, even with her firm stance and squared posture. He didn't linger in the flash of fear behind her eyes, in how she processed his size compared to hers, how he was a threat in that split second, back in the war, back to the way things were.

But she had forced his hand.

"There's a reason you were picked to be Head Boy," Hermione cut back, to rush beside him before he left the compartment.

"Just because there's a reason doesn't mean it's a good reason," he said, his voice thin. "Fuck off Granger."

And she did, though he wished she hadn't.

He didn't go back to the compartment he'd been in with the Slytherins, or to a new compartment. Instead, he went all the way to the back of the train, to stand in the last gap between the carriages. The slim space of exposed mechanisms provided a low chatter of sound, over and over.

He fished a cigarette out of a small box, black packaging with black paper, though the tobacco was bright purple. He snapped his fingers to light it, a sneer stuck to his lips.

There's a reason.

Sure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Tuesday — September 1st, 1998.**

Draco had never been jealous of cobblestone in his life, but there he stood, stricken with it.

The castle stood unaffected by the war. The arches were mended, the debris was cleared and the last vestige of the damage had been focused down to a single broken statue. It had been piled onto one spot, frozen in place with a small plaque.

Granger, who'd been herding Second years like the good girl she is, stopped her route. She waved them over to the Hufflepuff girl with a Head Girl pin, her face squashed and her hair bright yellow. Not blonde, not white, yellow, as if she had no idea how to care for it. He grimaced as the crowd jostled, left and right, and as they passed the monument. Granger had her hand outstretched and looked as pathetic up close as she had from a distance. His lip curled as she pressed a hand to the curve of the armor.

_For those who died defending the future, May 2nd, 1998._

He didn't linger to see the names, but dozens were listed. Some familiar in passing, none he cared to mourn right this second. It seemed a little morbid to memorialize their deaths in such a central part of the school, but they'd also decided to cram their daft old headmaster in a great white tomb, so what did Draco know of aesthetics.

"Seems like Granger's out to summon a boyfriend," he said without thinking.

She looked at him, torn eyes and red cheeks. Not upset, not as much as he'd expected. She looked furious, framed in thick brown curls.

Fuck.

Oh well.

It was a joke; he could have said worse.

Blaise and Theo whooped with laughter as they paced past. Pansy and Daphne were in deep discussion with several Seventh year girls, none of which Draco took the time to know. They were familiar but he never really bothered with names. If he had to, he could get away with pet names. Sweetheart, love, whatever name meant that they'd think he liked them. It was easier than names. One smiled and waved at him and he grimaced with teeth. She seemed pleased and he couldn't place why.

He can't help but glance backward, at the bossy Head Girl who's slammed herself onto the spot, stuck in front of a memorial.

His focus is on her because how can it not be?

She's making a spectacle of herself as she stood beside a broken statue. She looked as if she were in front of a gravestone, which in a way he supposed it was. He didn't hesitate to look back at her, not as the crowd moved. Ginny had moved over to her, as had Longbottom and Lovegood, her happy little replacements for Potter and Weasley. He rolled his eyes and focused ahead, his hands dug deep into his pockets.

He couldn't swallow the words back, not even if he wanted to.

He would have gone back for her —

Because she's the other Head of their year, obviously. He can't be seen to have left her, as then he'd be blamed for not keeping an eye on the Golden Girl of Gryffindor.

It took a painful amount of time for people to seat themselves and to settle. Draco spent the time idle, his attention fixed ahead of him. The Slytherin table was focused on earned loyalty. They didn't embed people to their circles without careful consideration and due diligence. If you were going to be a shit head, you weren't included. It was rather straight-forward, even when he had been a First year. He had brought wealth, prestige and knowledge; he was an easy fit.

He didn't care for those who sat on the outskirts, shy or withdrawn. It wasn't his place to slot them into the group or to help them form their own groups. The very idea made his skin crawl, of coddling younger students into play dates like he was a condescending parent.

So when the First years were sorted, he didn't offer more than a nod if they happened to look at him. Even then, when one girl slumped over in tears, he glared.

As if being a Slytherin was something to sob over.

Pathetic, honestly.

"Head Boys and Head Girls," McGonagall said from the teacher's table. "I'll need you to come with me for a moment."

Draco felt his eyes strain into the back of his head as Pansy pinched his bicep as hard as possible. He hadn't eaten dinner as he'd lost his appetite from the rock of the train and the shape of the halls. He could sneak into the kitchen later or ask an elf. They loved to serve him as if he might want to sneak them to the Malfoy Manor.

At least six of them had come across from Hogwarts to the Malfoy Manor to make up for the losses they'd sustained through Voldemort.

These were the petty thoughts that flitted between his ears as Granger walked up to McGonagall, up to him, her head high as if she had any reason to be proud. The two others, the Ravenclaw boy and the Hufflepuff girl, they were chatting from their tables to the front of the hall.

McGonagall looked between the four of them with mixed pride and pain.

Draco just wanted to sleep.

"I want to thank you for your patience in these times," she waved a hand for them to follow her.

"Professor," Granger said, the fucking swot. She couldn't just stay quiet for two seconds, could she? "Aren't we meant to escort our younger students to their dorms?"

"The dorms have been shuffled around," McGonagall waved a hand. "They're split based on ages rather than houses."

"What's the point of common rooms then," Draco said, no hesitation. "Or houses at all for the matter."

"Each house retains their common room and their areas, so to say, but we're going to integrate the dorms. It's something Dumbledore considered for years, but it'd have involved a lot of restructuring. Given the school was…" McGonagall trailed off. "It was the best time to enact such a change."

"So, what, everyone has to run all over the castle to get to their rooms?" Draco kept step with her, though she was determined to escape his presence.

"Rooms are split, four to a space, with a mix of the houses." McGonagall smiled as they ascended through the main stairways. "When a student goes through their doorway, they're transported to their room."

"What if they want to visit one another?" That was the Hufflepuff girl with the awful blond hair. It was like sulfur, he wanted to yank her into a bathroom and treat her hair — but that was petty, wasn't it.

"Whoever opens the door decides the room," McGonagall waved a hand. "But they can only open the door to their own room; so if they want to visit one another, they can. They just need permission."

Granger looked ready to faint.

"As the four Heads of the school, your dorm will have a door that has access to all other dorms; as you can imagine, that is a very special privilege."

"What do you mean, 'your' dorm?" Draco spat, sick of the lack of details. "Why not send a letter about this, why spring it — "

"She did send a letter," Granger said, her voice thin. "But I hadn't realized we would be sectioned off as part of it."

They stopped on the fourth floor, the least used floor in the school. Except, of course, for the study hall and the Library that sprawled through most of it. The tumorous nature of the Library necessitated that the floor remain unused, as it needed to expand to include more shelves and study spaces. It had been a small alcove when the school had been established and had since grown through donations, purchases and time.

Not that Draco really gave a shit, but he had a habit of knowing more than he needed. He thrived in that, to spare himself the sensation of being outdone.

(He glared at the back of Granger's head. The letter comment hadn't been necessary, had it.)

"Your dorm is a visitors' quarters, we had it arranged during the Triwizard tournament," McGonagall gave a faint smile. "Though part of the wall has been converted to a Library door, so you may go through there without having to loop all the way around."

Granger let out a sob.

How much did this girl cry, honestly?

McGonagall said a few things further but it was lost to Draco. He paid her no mind, not as she gestured down the hall, to the windows, words, words, so many insufferable words. He instead focused on the small plaque of minted bronze, impressed into the stone by the door.

_Student Head of Houses_  
_Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger._  
_Avery Flint and Rodger Corner._

Draco stared at the names as if they'd shift. Perhaps Blaise was meant to be the Head Boy or Theo. Anyone except for him.

"Exciting, isn't it?" That's Avery, if Draco had to guess. Her, with her yellow hair, yellow robes, yellow teeth — as if yellow is a point of pride to her core.

"Sod off," Draco said, his head tilted towards their dorm.

He pushed into the dorm with his head high and his throat tight. He was used to the dungeons, he was used to the shadows and the deep, rich darks of the space below. But instead, he was lofted halfway to the North tower, vaulted up into the sky like a pyre on a mountainside. The entrance space was a small lounge with several couches in front of a dead fireplace. To the right was a kitchen area. An exposed pantry laid against the wall alongside an icebox. A four-person table sat nearby as if they'd ever had a reason to eat in here.

The doors; great.

Straight ahead was a tall black door with a vault-style dial set in the middle. It had room numbers and years carved along with finely carved student names. No matter how far he spun, the names continued to change beyond reason.

"It's the students," Granger said behind him, her voice weak. She had her gaze fixed on the small stone archway to the right.

"I know," he paused on Blaise's name, which was aligned with Neville Longbottom and Michael Corner. He swung the door open and stuck his head through, to which he heard the boys scream.

Draco cackled through the curse words before Granger rushed over to slam the door, her hands rough against his chest. "Don't abuse it!"

"Abuse it?" Draco echoed, confusion stretched across his face. "I wanted to say hello to my dear friend Blaise."

Granger squared her door and kept her back pressed to the wide black door, her hands clasped over the dial.

"I'm surprised you didn't launch yourself straight for the Library," Draco said, his voice idle. "Figured you'd at least have to change your knickers — "

Through sheer determination, he didn't flinch. Not as he saw her face contort or her hand sail for him. She slapped him, hard and decisive, and he sneered through it. She looked more surprised than him as she remained against the door, as if she were afraid of him.

As if she hadn't been the one to strike first.

"What do you think I'm going to do?" Draco said, his hand pressed against his cheek. His jaw tensed against the pain, a flicker of muscles as he watched.

"Invade privacy," Granger flexed her brow upward, her teeth grit. "Abuse the privilege."

"Merlin," Draco exhaled between his teeth. He rocked back and away from the door, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "So much for having a reason to be here."

He didn't stop, not as she blubbered through something like an apology. He didn't want or need it, he hadn't asked for it. She had ruined his fun. He had no reason to peek into peoples rooms and he wasn't about to dedicate himself to patrols. They'd have to reassign the role or move him or something.

The urge to explore the other four doors was lost on him.

He made a beeline out of the room and down the hall to the exposed balcony.

The one upside of this room reassignment.

He used to come to this balcony during his Sixth year quite a lot. He came here in his Fourth and Fifth years too, but he'd come here to sneak a few kisses with Pansy or whichever girl he'd scooped up to piss off Pansy. He'd come here to smoke with Blaise and Theo between classes, sometimes with Flint or Montague. He hid here once from Goyle and Crabbe who he'd tricked into kissing one another in a game of truth or dare.

Sixth year — he had come here, for reasons he didn't linger in.

He never did it.

Jumped, that is.

But he considered it. It's worthwhile to consider the shape of things, even if you don't ever think you'll do it. But he couldn't have done it Sixth year, not if he wanted to protect his parents or continue their legacy. Neither seemed to be in mortal peril anymore, given that his parents were safe and his legacy was ruined for him.

But it was dark and cold up here, and he enjoyed that more than anything else.

The warm, small space he'd been crammed into, elbow to elbow with Granger and two insufferable swots. He didn't speak with Rodger, but he must be insufferable to have been settled with the Head Boy pin.

Draco took a drag of his cigarette, hands shaking and his shoulders hunched.

He wasn't going to do anything drastic.

He just needed to be out of that space.

He needed the cigarette.

"I'm sorry."

He should have jumped.

Draco angled himself to glare at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. His hand hovered by the cigarette as he took a deep drag, his eyes narrowed through the chilly evening air.

"Are you smoking?"

"No," he exhaled smoke into her face. She had enough sense to bat it away with a small gust. He watched her as if he expected her to yell or to shout or to snatch the cigarette away from him to stomp it out. But she didn't do any of that. She just stood, back-lit by the corridor of warm orange candlelight.

"I didn't know you smoked," she said, her expression dubious.

"Are you going to tattle on me?" Draco loosed a half-there snicker.

Hermione considered him and the question in equal measure, her weight shifted to one leg. "I've never smoked," she said, her tone idle. "What's it like?"

"Tastes like shit," Draco narrowed his eyes at her.

"Why do it?"

His lips twitched as he almost continued his answer, but he caught the tail of it with his tongue. He clamped his teeth tight and sucked another breath, though he took the care to exhale it upward rather than at her. She didn't take his silence as an insult. Rather, she stepped closer, her gaze intent up at him through the moonlight.

He didn't expect her hand to extend out to him like she wanted to shake his hand.

"May I try it?"

"No," Draco spat, a cruel laugh spiked out of him.

"Why not?" Granger didn't falter back, her hand stuck out at him, her jaw set.

Draco exhaled through his nose and stared down at the half-finished roll. If she were to stamp it out or to throw it, he wouldn't care, really. It wasn't as if he was hurting on money, he could afford a new pack. But it was more the concept of sharing a cigarette with Hermione Fucking Granger, Head Girl and Golden Girl, bushy-haired and the definition of a swot. Morbid curiosity won over pride as he angled it towards her.

And she took it, as she tried to hold it between her index finger and thumb like a dirty tissue.

The comedy widened as she brought it to her lips, which he'd never considered for more than a few seconds. He'd glare at her as she spoke too loud or mouthed her stupid spells with theatrical enunciation, but never like this. Not wrapped around the paper butt, a confused little 'o' shape as she looked to him for advice. Not as she hollowed her cheeks and drew a breath, her eyes watered and her lashes fluttered.

And she spat.

The moment shattered as she broke into a hacking cough, tears down her cheeks and her face bright red.

"That is foul!"

He laughed, ugly and beside himself. He gritted his teeth as he tried to catch his breath, her tongue ticked against her teeth, around her lips, anxious energy bounced from her feet to her hair. She didn't stop the theatrics until she summoned a glass of water to spit over the balcony.

"It's not that bad," Draco said, his voice idle. He drew a new cigarette from the pack as his old one had been stamped onto the stonework.

She hung over the low stone wall, her hands grasped to the edge. Her fingers dug into the stone and her hair folded around her head. He wondered if he could flip her, to watch her plummet to the darkness below. But she pushed back to stare at him, red face, red eyes, spit-covered lips, and wet cheeks.

"Merlin Granger — "

"Foul," she repeated, her voice croaky.

"Yeah, it's a cigarette, what did you expect?" He squinted at her as he took a drag. He mock-coughed before he laughed again, his hip rested against the stonework wall.

"Look," Granger said, her voice dry. "I came out to apologize for the door, I — you were chosen for a reason, I don't mean to question your position."

"What position is that?" Draco asked between drags, not sure if she realized how she'd come apart from one mouthful of smoke.

"Head Boy," she said, her voice heavy with intent.

"Ah yes," Draco swirled his cigarette as if he had a fine glass of fire whiskey. "Head Boy, role model to the school, protector of the youth." Another long drag and exhale for effect. "I hope to lead them to a — uh, brighter future," he trailed off to lick his lips apart.

"You want to get in trouble," Granger said, her voice suspicious.

"Why would I want to get in trouble?" Draco dropped his head a fraction so they were closer to eye level. She was tiny, something he often forgot. She often had a massive bag, or she was seated. He rarely stood near her for more than a few seconds at a time, but she was still tiny. Bird-like, he'd noticed, thin wrists, thin neck, just thin all over.

"Because," Granger said, with the same realization she'd use in a class discussion. "You don't know how else to be."

Draco felt his throat tense and he wanted to punch himself for it.

"But I won't help you get in trouble, I'm not going to babysit you or make sure you do as you're supposed to. I have better things to be doing." And she turned as if she'd solved him like a puzzle box.

Draco remained on the balcony beneath the stars as midnight closed in. The hallways remained lit but they dimmed enough for shadows to emerge. He watched the Great Lake from his vantage point, towards the Forbidden Forest. The sprawl of water and woods gave the illusion of isolation but he didn't need any of that to feel alone. It was simply how it was to be him, shadowed between his passing moments with others.

This was easier; the depths of the shadows.

By one o'clock he'd returned to the shared dormitory. He checked the doors in their common area, the shabby one that led into the Library, then one for brooms and cauldrons. The last two doors were inset to the wall around a curved corridor. He took a chance and landed in the boys' room, to which he thanked his luck. The last thing he wanted to do was to slide into Granger's dormitory after hours and have her make up some elaborate five-point reason about why he'd found her.

At least he'd not see her outside of classes; she'd be in the Library. He would stay by the Quidditch pitch or sneak off to Hogsmeade. Seventh years were allowed to go whenever they pleased, so he imagined the same courtesy was extended to Eighth years. The room he had with Rodger was plain, with four beds total. Rodger had erected a screen around his side like the most passive-aggressive roommate that Draco had ever seen, but — whatever.

Fuck him.

Draco didn't spare the boy a second glance, not as he augmented his own separator from a spare trunk. He tore it apart and erected a black latticed frame and strung the spare curtains up over the spaces. While Rodger had slammed up some ugly slats of wood, Draco took the time to make it look nice.

He heard the mutter about the sound and sent a stunning spell at the boy. He didn't even think about it, didn't give a fuck. He was tired and the boy had started it. Draco didn't have the time or patience for passive-aggression, not when he could fulfill the role of aggressive-aggression. Once he was pleased with his separator he lifted the spell. Rodger laid still, whether he'd not even woken up in the first place or he'd thought better than to speak up.

Draco was so embedded in his rage that he forgot about his insomnia.

And so he laid there, trapped between awake and asleep.

**Wednesday — September 2nd, 1998. **

But he was still until it was five o'clock, when he climbed out of bed and made his way to the attached bathroom. There was no bathroom in the common area, not that he knew of, but each dorm had it's own bathroom so it wasn't some great loss. He brushed his teeth and showered, doing his best impression of being functional. By six o'clock, he'd dragged on the skeleton of his personal Quidditch gear. Not the Slytherin colors with the cream slacks and the green shirt; black top, black bottoms with dark grey for any accent.

His broom had been propped in the closet, the twigs all out of shape from transit.

"Good morning," Hermione said from the small table. The three empty seats beside her made her look pathetic and lonely.

He didn't linger, not as she repeated his name. He cleared the twigs and reshaped them. It was an aesthetic thing as much a precision thing. He didn't want to go out onto the field with them out of shape, as it'd get worse with each lap. He took pride in what he owned and that which he was responsible for.

It was why he kept both his belongings and his responsibilities limited.

He was all or nothing; life or death.

Something struck the back of his head. A small was of parchment with nothing written on it except '_turn around_'.

He tossed the ball into the air as it burst into flames then into nothing. He scrubbed his face with his hand as he stood, not to look at her nor to pay her any mind. He hoisted his broom onto his shoulder. He could fly from the balcony if he really wanted to, but the school had anti-flight barriers. He didn't want to have his broom confiscated, or worse, leap off the tower and plummet.

By the second-floor staircase, he saw her, books in her arms and her face red.

"I need to go see Hagrid," she spluttered between breaths. "I thought we could walk together."

"Did you," Draco said, his voice idle.

"You aren't wearing your Head Boy pin."

"I'm not."

"Why not?"

Draco shrugged, his bottom lip pushed out as they landed on the ground floor. He had hoped in an early trip to the Quidditch pitch he'd be able to avoid her. She had summoned him to the Prefect carriage, she had stalked him to the balcony. He didn't want to know how far she'd follow him as if he were her latest cause to champion. He could see it in how her jaw was set and how she'd stare at him, her eyes wide and her mouth furrowed.

She followed in step with him, her arms laden with books. She could have put them into her bag, enchanted them to be light, but she didn't. She was so stubborn about the stupidest things. He didn't turn to watch her walk to Hagrid's hut but he noticed her absence. The heavy breathing, the stern attention, the way she'd rush a little more just to catch the corner of his eye.

The pieces clicked together in his mind.

She didn't trust him.

Which made sense. He didn't blame her distrust. He had been a close ally to the Dark Lord if all you knew was his family name. He hadn't done anything of note during the war except cry and suffer on the floor to innumerable torture techniques, but he'd tortured others. She was just curious about him, about whether he'd snap and begin to torture the new children at Hogwarts.

As if her presence might save them if that was his intent.

So there was a reason he was Head Boy; kindling for sadistic tendencies, or a method of cataloging his movements. Patrols, the separate dorm…

Draco arrived at the Quidditch pitch, his broom strained against his palm. He hadn't been here since his Fifth year, back when he still had a shred of hope about his future as a Quidditch star. He didn't care what position he played, though he was a rubbish Beater. He was lean and slim with more interest in maneuvering his broom than beating others with Bludgers. He took his stance and shot into the air, a genuine smile on his lips for the first time in months.


	3. Chapter 3

**Friday — September 4th, 1998.**

"Why would you need your own kitchen?" Blaise had his hands behind his head as he stretched his back out. They'd played a friendly match against a group of Ravenclaws, as Quidditch didn't start until November. "Making Pixie Pops?"

"Yes, Blaise, I'm making drugs in my Head Boy quarters," Draco couldn't help but snort.

"They aren't that hard to make," Blaise trailed off, his hand wavered in the air.

"If I wanted drugs, I would buy drugs," Draco leaned back against the plush emerald settee, his head rolled back against the curve of it. "It's more, oh, your patrol ran late, have some soup."

"But then you have to cook your own food," Pansy sneered as if it were a personal offense. "As if I want to cook. Do I look like I cook? No."

"You don't live there Pans," Draco drawled as he stretched.

"But if I did, is my point," Pansy jabbed her wand in his direction, which spurted some glitter nail polish at him. It disappeared as it closed in on his slacks, whether by her magic or his anti-dirt woven cloth.

"You would have hated the orientation sessions," Draco hummed as he stared at the ceiling.

The students had been given the first half-week off from classes to learn the new routes between classes. It also provided a chance for students to reconsider or to attend the second round of arrivals, given that some parents wanted to see the safe arrival of students before they sent their own children. Another two dozen had arrived since the first lot arrived Tuesday. Draco had escorted them with a massive fake smile and endured their questions.

If anything, he'd been a model student.

Granger hadn't tried to speak with him since Wednesday, which was lovely. He didn't like how she stared at him like she wanted to run her fingers down his chest and split him open to find his index. She had a way about her, curiosity not metered by ethics. She'd always been that way, desperate for the answer that she wanted to see.

Hence his trip to the dungeons this afternoon, to spend time with his friends.

What few he had left.

Daphne and Pansy were on the floor with nail polish and their hair in curls. They were going to Hogsmeade to meet some boys who'd graduated several years ago and Draco can't even bring himself to tell them off. Pansy might twist that into an elaborate narrative about his jealousy and she was like a tick. She would burrow beneath his skin and exhaust him until she got what she wanted from him, his very lifeblood. He loved her, in what fragmented way he loved his friends.

Astoria was with them, between them, her little face peppered with a make-up look than neither girl was brave enough to try first.

It was an awful look but he wouldn't say it to her. She was too sweet for that sort of venom. Her brows were like black lines drawn with ink and her lipstick was a vibrant shade of purple. But she smiled and twisted as if she weren't trying to be pretty but trying very hard not to try. He shifted his attention to the thick glass windows where a pack of merpeople flashed past.

"Are they still mad?"

"About the poison in their home?" Daphne said, her voice dry. "A little."

"It wasn't our fault," Draco pushed up from the couch, his broom lax in his grip.

"Yeah, well, you try telling them that, they're all," Daphne mimicked a dolphin before she let out an ugly snort. "Are they even words, honestly."

The mermaids flashed past again, their nails scraped against the glass. It reformed, as the glass was charmed to be resistant to their attacks. But they had never been pleasant to the Slytherin students and that vendetta had deepened last year with the Carrows. Draco grabbed his sleek leather satchel and waited for Pansy and Daphne to gather their shoes. They rushed to their door, one after the other.

"The mixed-house dorm thing is weird, isn't it." Blaise watched Draco rather than the door, his arms crossed. He had changed into casual attire, a black turtleneck and black slacks. His tastes lined up with Draco's and they could have shared wardrobes, were that not a tragic thing to do.

"This school is weird," Draco dismissed as he craned his neck from side to side. An incredible crack sounded with each movement. "Next they'll be setting up pairs, matching Muggleborns and purebloods, just watch."

"Oh no, you'll have to save me Draco," Astoria laughed like wind chimes, her hand fluttered by her mouth.

Draco flexed a half-there smile at her, a pity smile, but she lapped it up. He didn't look at her again, not for any specific reason except that he felt the thread of soothed ego that girls like her brought with them. They coaxed him into half-there intimacy and pretended to be flighty and fun until they got a bad grade then sobbed about it. Or they'd make him take them on ridiculous dates to innocuous places and it snowballed.

Worst is when they got close enough to him that they noticed the emptiness that rested in his chest. It was a wide space of apathy, a space he was clever enough to hide. He didn't linger in it, didn't wallow. Achievements and praise all fell into the pit, hand over fist, and he'd accepted that long ago. There was no way around it. He accepted he was broken. It wasn't his issue to coddle girls, to explain his broken edges and his black pit.

It was their fault if they fell into him.

Daphne and Pansy reappeared their bits and bobs all in place. Pansy had a modest cardigan on that would be popped open the second they got onto the grounds. He didn't have to see it to picture the curve of her chest or the shape of her thighs as they met her arse. He'd handled it enough to paint a picture but all he saw now was the dark-rimmed eyes and her upturned nose. Her gaze narrowed she dared him to beg her to stay. As if they had something to salvage.

But she had the same black pit as him; they didn't work.

"Aren't you going to tell me I'm cute." Pansy flourished a hand at herself, her fingers wiggled at her face.

"Oh, were you trying to be cute?" Draco's lips twitched apart.

"You're the one staring at my arse, Malfoy," she sang as she skipped up the steps.

"There's just so much of it — "

He ducked as she shot a stinging jinx back at him. She'd always been a shit duelist.

Astoria bounced along with them, as Daphne rushed after Pansy. Draco stopped, his broom held aside as he watched Astoria like a puppy he didn't know the owner of.

"I'm walking with you," she said, a tip to her head as she watched his reaction.

"Afraid I'll get lost?"

"Oh, I hope we get lost."

Pansy and Daphne had split as they reached the ground floor. They had their own plans for the evening and Draco had no interest. But he wanted to see them as far as he could without leaving the castle. They refused to let him trail them across the grounds, but he watched from the Great Hall exit as they disappeared into the trail to Hogsmeade.

Astoria — well.

Draco licked his lips apart as he climbed the last flight of stairs.

Astoria was persistent. The worst part of it was how she acted as if she were subtle as she crowded closer to him and brushed her hair over her shoulder on repeat. She had removed the makeup before they'd left the dorm but the purple lipstick remained in the corners of her lips. At least until he'd licked it away between kisses, pressed against an alcove on the way back down to the Slytherin dorms. In his defense, she had grabbed his robes and shoved him into the wall.

And he'd allowed it because he was curious.

He thought she might have something to her, with all her sweetness and softness.

She'd wanted this since Sixth year, she whispered. I've always fancied you.

Really, he said with enough softness that it might sound sweet rather than bored.

She sucked marks onto his collarbone and tongued his mouth as if her life depended on it. But she didn't seem engaged with him, or him with her. It wasn't her first time, or his, he didn't need to ask, she'd told him, over and over, begged him to get it over with, an attempt at emotional detachment, distant moans, something warm, something hot.

But he didn't want her enough to put in the effort it'd take to get his cock out — a fact he half-laughed at as he climbed the stairs.

And so they kissed and that was fine.

Just, fine.

Maybe he was spoiled.

No, he was definitely was spoiled. Not in a material sense, though he could afford any luxury imaginable. But he had been spoiled with sharpened features and silver eyes. He'd grown tall, though not lanky. He worked for the rest, between Quidditch and basic drills as designed by his private Quidditch coach as a child. He was clever with his food and dedicated in his grooming, and it amounted to enough charm to find comfort with girls without active effort in the moment. His existence by nature was a trap for the black gap in his chest where love went to die.

His mother had complained about his father, about how half the girls in their year were after him. She'd warned Draco that the same would happen to him, and he'd laughed. And then it did and he —

It wasn't quite as he imagined it.

He thought he'd enjoy it more, but he didn't.

Not that he didn't enjoy the physical aspect on some base level, but it had always felt rather like taking care of himself but messier with Pansy. The war sapped any great emotions from him, joy or grief, he was numb. Numb to his core, on a path because it seemed like the thing to do. And girls either steered clear of him these past few days or they faced their mortality and chased him like he was a silver Snitch. Astoria was the boldest yet, but he'd noticed several Slytherin girls, Sixth and Seventh years, who'd slant their shoulders and twist their torsos, and it felt so mundane.

As if they expected him to slide over to them, to notice them out of the dozen or so other girls much like them. That he'd tell them out of all the pretty girls, she was the prettiest and he'd throw her onto his lap and shag her through multiple orgasms and they'd pop out a few kids. The timeline in his projected future ran shorter the more he thought on it, which was perhaps a disservice to the girls. Maybe they wanted something else from him; dresses, jewelry, wine, all the trappings of wealth they glimpsed of his family when they'd been in the social pages.

Or they had a narrative for themselves, where they would be The One to save him.

He was broken, he knew that already. He didn't have to be told twice. He wasn't a regular boy with a regular life. He was the wealthy son of a known criminal. The girls who were after him weren't really after him. He was clever enough to pick that up. They didn't see the black gap in his chest, the way he'd thinned and sharpened through the war. They saw his name, his wealth, and a sliver of the danger they wanted to impale themselves on.

And that wasn't exciting.

It was morbid.

He slumped into the Head Dorms, Granger had strewn her things around the lounge. She was always surrounded by more books than friends. As if that wasn't her life summarized. His gaze dragged over a large bronze clock that hung above the fireplace and ticked as louder than he liked.

"Did you hex Rodgers?"

"No." _It was technically a spell._

"What happened?"

Draco made a beeline for his bedroom, where Rodgers had decorated his erected walls with banners and a glittering ward. He could see where the edges met the floor in tiny writing, runes, and sigils against Dark Arts.

Overkill, honestly. Half the wards would be nulled by goblin silver and the rest could be disenchanted. He would have picked apart the wards one by one, but he didn't want to have Rodgers tattle to Granger again. So he left them in place with the pleasant knowledge that he could crack them open for dramatic effect, should Rodgers necessitate it.

He'd left his broom in the dorm outside. He'd not bothered to toss it into the closet. He changed into his pajamas and slumped. He laid for several hours before he willed himself to go shower, as he began to feel the itch of Quidditch along his muscles. He thumbed purple from the corner of his mouth as he passed the mirror. He was sure he was meant to feel something, regret perhaps, or amusement.

Pride.

Something.

But he didn't.

He just felt tired.

Astoria had made the first move and that's how they wound up making out an abandoned classroom on the Second floor. One that he knew was abandoned because they'd torn out most of the desks and affixed cursed manacles to the floor. He wasn't surprised when he saw them still there in the dark, the crimes of last year lingered in the sparse architecture. They'd get the manacles out eventually, but there was no rush. They had plenty of classrooms.

It was as easy as a closed door to move on and pretend this darkness wasn't here.

Which made it perfect for Astoria and Draco.

His expression flickered as he thought about it. He had wanted her, but not enough. She'd thrown herself at him and he'd withdrawn. He was Draco Malfoy, the pretty rich boy with a Dark Mark and blood on his hands. He was either lucky to have her or taking advantage of her. There was no benefit it in. And if he rejected her altogether without even a kiss, then she might whine about him, say that she wasn't pretty enough or that he was gay.

He wasn't gay, though he'd batted the idea around for a brief stint between Pansy and Sixth year.

But it wasn't that, or he'd just shag Theo.

Draco wasn't quite sure he knew how to say 'no' without compromise anymore. It always ended up in an argument or confusion. And when it was something so innocuous, why not just try, see if he could stir something close to comfort from the brittle cockles of his heart. But it hadn't and now he had to see her eyes crack open and tears plummet. Or maybe she'd felt it too, that void beneath his flesh. Maybe it was for the best, she'd be over him.

He pressed his forehead to the tiles of the bathroom. His fingers trailed along the jagged scar that ran across his chest.

The regret seeped through him now, but it was too late for that.

At least they hadn't fucked.

He thought about soft lips wrapped around cigarette butts as he let his hand drop lower, but he didn't have the fortitude to do much about it. He went soft in the hot water, his forehead against the tiled wall. The private bathroom was the smallest joy in an otherwise joyless arrangement.

**Wednesday — September 9th, 1998. **

Classes kicked off, for which Draco was grateful.

It was easy at first, given he had revised the classwork more than a dozen times since he'd collected the books. The Eighth year course was much the same as the Seventh year with few changes outside of Defense Against the Dark Arts being reinstated. But he noticed Granger in each of his classes, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Charms, Transfiguration, always on the edge of his vision whether by design or by cruel irony.

She didn't speak to him and he didn't seek her out.

A pattern that was ruptured by Potions. In all other classes, he had Theo, Blaise, Daphne, and Pansy — at least one of them to partner with and to snicker with. And the classes that he didn't have them, there was no partnered work.

Draco considered how hard it would be to kill Snape.

He felt a sharp stab behind his eyes, as Snape glared from the front of the room.

He smirked, a tart pinch to his expression before his face fell.

They had to make a common cold cure to assist with Hospital Wing. The stores had been depleted during the war, so each set of pairs were split between preparation and monitoring. No one had wanted to work with Draco, which suited him. But then Granger split from her pair of three and he wanted to stick his head into one of the jars full of formaldehyde.

Tuesday's double Potions class had been pure theory and expectations.

Today was the physical task.

He considered the jars for which would be the easiest to get his head into when Granger waved a hand in his face.

"Draco, may you cut the lemongrass, please."

Draco maintained cool nonchalance over his features as he turned back to his work.

"It's our patrol night tonight," Granger pressed on as she stirred the cauldron. "And I know you don't want to do patrols, don't argue with me on this, it isn't for very long, and it will be very simple, you know, you've done patrols — "

"Granger."

"Which I don't really know how you were last year," she met his eye, uncertain warmth behind them as she tried to read him.

"Granger," he repeated as he snatched her wrist. "You've over-stirred it."

He watched the slim line of her throat tense as she turned her attention back to the cauldron. It was a pleasant shape for something so often obscured by her hair. She had her hair up in a messy knot as if she'd gathered it with her fingers. He wished she'd braid it or something; he'd offered to do it for her, but he didn't want to touch her more than needed.

"Add some birch sap, and — honey, two tablespoons, to thicken it back up," he exhaled. "A little water too, to make up for the evaporation. Purified, obviously."

She did as she was told and he tried not to smile at that. She didn't even question him, which he expected. She was so eager to obey he had to bite his cheek. It was worse when she looked at him as if to check her work by his expression.

"Very good," he said, unable to stamp out his amusement.

"Patrols," she repeated with heat in her cheeks. "You have to come. Come with."

"I'll come if you do," he shrugged as if he'd not meant it and she lost the ladle into the cauldron.

He was wrong. It was worse when all he could see was the third of her face from his angle as she worked, lips parted and her eyes wide. She mumbled things to herself, a spell perhaps, and he allowed her the peace. He doubted she even realized how frazzled she'd become and he didn't want to tease that out of her. She was like an iron poker ready to be yanked from a fireplace, about to brand whoever crossed her.

High-strung.

That was the phrase he was after as he continued to cut his ingredients into their correct proportions.

"I imagine Weasley and Potter will visit you in Hogsmeade often," he said, idle.

"Oh, yes," Granger smiled as she stirred, though he could see how her lips wrapped around silent numbers. At least she was being mindful. They couldn't retrieve the potion on repeat.

"I always thought you and Potter were together," he said, his tone absent. "But he's with the Weasley girl, Ginny."

"I'm dating Ron."

Draco laughed before he could help it. He chased the edge of it to bring it back in, sharp edges of his smile wrapped around the nasty sound. He pushed it deep down into his chest as Snape brushed past. He gave a solemn nod at their potion and Draco could see Granger unravel.

Not all the way, but a little.

Granger continued to trace the recipe with her finger. She had it memorized, but it gave her something to do with her hands. She'd always been the type to fidget with quills or with books. She always had something in her hands or against her lips. She had a thing for sugar quills, which had amused him at great length their Fourth year between Moody's miserable classes.

His gaze snapped to her eyes as she spoke, annoyed.

"What?" He said, his tone sharp.

"Aren't you going to make fun of me for it?"

"Why would I care?" Draco stared at her as if she'd grown an extra head. "You're clearly already miserable if you're entrusting yourself with that twit. It'd be like going to the amputee ward to cackle at the legless folks there."

Hermione dropped the ladle into the potion again.

Draco resumed his dicing of spring onions. The cold cure mixed with cooking in some ways, which amused him. He'd learned to cook through his childhood, more out of an appreciation for the art than for the necessity of it. He never had to make his own food, but his parents wanted him prepared in case he should ever have a need to. He could make several types of pasta and simple salads with ease. There were a few more ornate dishes for the specific purpose of showing off, coq au vin for something light or bœuf bourguignon if he could source high enough quality beef.

Because what good is anything if you can't rub it in someone's face?

"He's not a git," Hermione had fished out the ladle with her wand and cleaned it, much to Snape's passing chagrin.

"Sorry, absolute moron — is that better?"

"Why do you hate him so much?"

Draco slapped down the knife. "Why do you care what I think about you and him dating?"

"You had enough of an opinion to think I was dating Harry — "

"I said I mistook your friendship for a relationship," Draco reached across to slide the spring onions in. He was inches from her, as she hadn't much space between the cauldron and the jars of preserved creatures. He lingered in her space for the mere fact that he could, the warmth of her brown eyes was brighter in the light of the cauldron.

"Why did you ask in the first place? If they would visit?"

Draco dragged his gaze across her, his brows angled as he returned her space to her. "No reason." He smirked as he picked up a small vial.

A non-answer was the worst thing to offer her and he reveled in that frustration. She was pathetic and it was made worse by how blind she was. Maybe that said something about him, how he drew amusement from her jagged edges and the way she struck with no finesse. She never had any, socially speaking. Granger was like a mallet at her most precise, even with her intelligence. She lacked the observation skills that came with silence.

She always had to answer, even if she showed her hand. And she expected the same transparency in kind. He didn't have to be a genius to see how she tensed when he came close to her, or how she'd lingered on the balcony. But then again, he wasn't stupid enough to dig his fangs into something like that. She was stupid, he decided. She had to be, for how she chewed on her fingers and licked the brown sugar from her fingertips when she dropped a pinch of it.

She cleaned them in the sink though she had a wand. He let her go, not eager to argue with her over something so mundane.

Space allowed him the chance to drop a pinch of salt. The brown sugar was for a whole other recipe. She hadn't even realized she'd made a mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

**Wednesday — September 9th, 1998. **

"Are you enjoying classes?"

Draco made a face, noncommittal purse to his lips matched with a shrug.

"Okay, well," Granger smiled with too much warmth. "Any class in particular you're enjoying?"

Draco shook his head, his hands dug into his robe pockets.

Granger looked at the ground ahead of them. Her lips parted with a loud pop but she didn't speak. She seemed to think better of it, for once in her life, and went quiet.

"Potions," Draco said, a thin edge to his voice.

She waited for the punchline, her eyes quick in their sockets as she tried to preempt the insult.

And he left it at that, left her to suffer. It was more amusing that way, to watch her face heat up. She thrived in the concrete and in answers. She hated elusive answers. There was no way to be right if there was nothing to work with. And so that was what he would give her each week they had to patrol together.

**Wednesday — September 16th, 1998. **

"Please, don't walk so quick."

Draco debated a swifter pace but decided against it.

Granger appeared by his side, red in her cheeks and in her eyes. Her eyes were brown of course, a fact he had learned in his drawing-room as he watched the veins pop around the toffee brown warmth, when they had become all red with blood, but they're red in a different way. He won't ask why she had rubbed-red eyes or a puff to her face. He doesn't care.

He doesn't.

Her throat clicked in a loud, breathy way and he tensed. He expected her to speak, to ask him something or to yell at him, or both, but she doesn't. Instead she bit down and scrunched, her short legs in rapid clip beside him. She had her gaze fixed ahead of them, as if she expected someone or something to jump out. But this was the dungeons and he had a sense of them. People tended to linger closer to the kitchens or by the Hufflepuff dorms.

She rubbed her face with her sleeve.

He rolled his eyes.

She watched the floor, her mouth strained and small. He hadn't been with her since Potions — they'd split apart, as they weren't friends, they weren't anything, as if they had a reason to be around one another except for patrols or the passing breeze in their dorm. But something had happened between Potions and patrols, and he… He was afraid, in truth. He couldn't pick why, but she must have explored the school.

The Library was in disarray with half the books torn or shredded. Or perhaps she was crying over the trophy room which had been blown to pieces. Or the Muggle Studies supplies which had also been torn apart. The school had been slapped back together but not all at once. It would take time to heal the wounds. There was any number of things to cry about in this miserable place and he refused to pick at her. It would be too easy and…

He's afraid it would be his fault and he didn't think he could lie to her. He refused to. If it was something he'd been tasked to do, then he'd admit it because he doesn't care what she thinks. But they had an hour of patrols twice a week, at a minimum, and he cared enough to maintain peace for his own sake.

She sniffled.

He let her.

She tried to keep quiet. She didn't want him to notice. If she wanted to speak about it, she would. So instead he let her sob and fuss and shiver.

He's afraid she'll break if he asked her out loud what was wrong.

She didn't stop on the Fourth floor, rather, she rushed towards the Seventh floor. He let her go and didn't hesitate to watch her.

She would have said if she wanted him to know.

Draco had expected her to bother him through their patrols. Especially now, with tears down her face and no words. He expected her to babble and complain and ask questions but all he was left with was the echo of her sniffles. But their patrols were grim and silent as they walked beside one another like they were on the way to a joint funeral.

**Wednesday — October 7th, 1998. **

It took three weeks, but Draco worked it out. The tears, that is.

(Or he had a theory, and that was good enough.)

Classes were much the same as ever, a perpetual loop of questions and scrawled answers. Given the increased difficulty of N.E.W.T.s, he was left with little in the way of personal time. He studied his textbooks, he attended his patrols along a perpetually silent Granger and he spent what little free time he was afforded on the Quidditch pitch. He wouldn't bother with the Slytherin team. He had lost what little skill he possessed and he refused to try if he thought he might lose.

And he might.

The thought of some snotty Fourth year beating him — he wouldn't do it at all. He couldn't stomach the loss, couldn't fathom it. Blaise timed his Snitch captures and he had gotten worse. It was embarrassing, so much so that he didn't even play in the informal leagues between houses for fun. He sneaked out instead and flew in the night to flick dew drops from the grass and chase stars. At least it was something for him, something private.

And that was how Draco had worked it out.

The Granger sobbing thing.

At first he hadn't known what to think. Because it's Granger, after all. She never needed a reason to be miserable. He assumed it was something stupid like a book was borrowed or she'd gotten a question wrong on a test. But then he watched her each morning across the Great Hall. Because when she woke up, she bounced and smiled and rushed downstairs.

And then she'd wait for the Owl post.

And then she'd droop.

And that was it.

The first part of the problem at least. He watched her watch the owls because she was so obvious about it. Her mouth hung wide open and she smiled, like an owl might shit in her mouth and he wanted to see that. It'd be a laugh at least, and worth the tens of times that it didn't happen.

It'd make the minutes he spent watching her mean something more than learning how her teeth didn't touch when she smiled, not all the way, or how she would move her whole head rather than just her eyes. It's a thing ladies do, his mother had told him, a manners thing. Sometimes she had her hair up in a braid, which was a disaster. It showed off her neck and made her look like girl from one of those Victorian novels with their plain faces and sharp wit.

But he had to kill the time between letters somehow, so he watched her.

It was better than Astoria, who leaned into him and touched his thigh like he might spasm from such a thing. But she might as well have grabbed the bench itself for all the reaction she got. But the lack of a reaction was enough for her, as she smiled and giggled with her friends.

Granger was waiting for a letter, but about what?

Or, from whom?

The owl post part he worked out first. The next part came by mistake.

One night when he'd headed out of his dorm to fly by night, he'd seen her.

She was often by the fireplace, as Avery and Rodger kept to their dorms. So Granger claimed the lounge, as if she could strongarm the other three into a friendship if she made herself available. She had laid out hot chocolates and snacks, she had put out some books with their names on them, of the books she thought they might like, but it all remained untouched. Avery and Rodger would take the books sometimes but he doubted they read them.

His stack of books was at least three feet tall, and yet she added to it, week after week.

But right now she had the fireplace bright and a big blanket across her lap. Her great ugly cat was asleep upside-down with his eyes rolled back into his head. He looked like he'd died and she hadn't noticed.

But his gaze was on her, or the back-third of her face.

She had a luxurious stationery set with gold trim and red roses printed in the corners. A wax seal kit sat beside it, gold ink that was chromatic in the firelight. He couldn't see what the seal was, but he'd assume it was her initials. She hadn't noticed him as he walked past, but he watched her for a few seconds, how her handwriting looped and how she drew dainty flowers around a name; Ronald Weasley. An address followed it, along with a letter. A thick letter if the several scrolls were true to size.

Granger had small handwriting too, and she wrote dense notes.

He'd watched her press a kiss to a corner of parchment and fold it up. It was the sort of kiss that would float out and catch the recipient on the cheek. His mother used to send them and he refused to open them at the table in the Great Hall. He smiled in spite of himself but pressed on.

She hadn't noticed him.

How many letters had she sent Weasley to receive none in return?

Granger never received letters in the post.

And he continued to watch her for those few weeks, because the man was stupid but not that stupid. Yet, no letters.

He knew. He watched her.

Which brought him to the Great Hall this fine October morning, with the owls in the air a familiar sight. A group of three owls swooped as one to drop a giant fluffy bouquet of daisies onto her.

Call it boredom, morbid curiosity, or just blind faith that the Weasley boy mustn't be that stupid.

There was no note on the flowers, he knew that for a fact. For once, he didn't watch her face, not as she plucked them up and poked through the flowers. It was just pathetic, to have her wait and wait for nothing. A pity gesture with flowers devoted to insincerity; that he'd never tell. It isn't about him, he doesn't care, it's not about seeing her, or seeing her happy or mad or however she wants to feel. It's just a bone, tossed between the empty void the letters left because Draco might die from embarrassment if he has to watch her wilt one more time.

She isn't subtle with how upset she is over the lack of post. He'd halfway across the hall and even he can see it — even if no one else seemed to have noticed.

He kept his gaze fixed to Astoria who was against his bicep, half-asleep on her toast. He shook her, false smile, false eyes, just enough to get her upright.

She said something and laughed, and he laughed because he hadn't heard her. He rarely listened to her. She didn't say much really, platitudes, she was easy to be around. Easy to please, easy to read. Sometimes it was nice to be around someone who was easy to be around.

Not everything had to be chess.

Classes sprinted by and then he had no choice but to look at Granger.

She had a daisy tucked behind her ear.

Draco felt his chest seize as if he might snatch it out of her hair and stamp it. But he couldn't bring himself to tear it from her. Instead he sneered through the shadows of the Dungeons as they waited for Snape. He almost spoke, to ask about the flower, but he couldn't. It'd be obvious and he had sent them as — just, a break, she needed a break. She looked so sad all the time and it was so easy to avoid. He didn't want to have to look at her stupid sobbing face all over again, week after week.

Snape wafted them in like a cool draft and they took to their tables. The instructions appeared on the board and Snape spoke in loose terms, about how hard it was and how disappointed he was. None of it ever applied to Draco, as he had prepared more potions in his life than the entire class combined. His mother enjoyed Potions and Snape visited during his summers, for tea or for talks, and so he had an advantage. He always had an advantage, in truth, and yet he still felt behind.

"I thought it might be good for me to prepare ingredients this week," she said, her hand extended to catch his wrist.

He had begun to cut the bat wings into small slivers without thought.

Half the class was to make a poison; the other half would make a cure. They'd have to rely on one another, class-wide.

"If you want," Draco shook off her hand.

She looked at his left wrist, the one she'd grabbed, and withdrew. She didn't wilt or pout. Instead she began to prepare the ingredients that needed to be sliced and diced. He didn't correct her because she was good enough for it to work, though several of the diced toad livers were… A little off.

"Why do you always cut things?" Granger asked, her tone light.

"I used to do it for Crabbe and Goyle," Draco said, his voice tight as he passed over Crabbe's name.

"That's surprisingly sweet of you," she said, a smile.

"If they screwed up, Snape would punish me," Draco leveled off some moonstone powder. He had portioned a smaller cauldron out to mix his own cure, as he didn't trust the other half of the room. He left Hermione to create the poison, as if she failed, it wouldn't matter either way.

"And yet they made mistakes often," Snape said as he brushed past. He didn't comment on Draco, or how he'd begun to prepare his own cure.

Granger grinned as if it was funny and Draco wanted to slap the daisy off of her but — he couldn't. It was a relief to see her something other than miserable.

He'd finished his small catch-all cure for the Nightshade Nectar. Granger's hair had plumed with the humidity. He watched, her unsure what to make of her in the steam and shadows. She looked pleased with herself, pleased with her concoction. It bubbled and hissed, though it looked much like acid mixed with tar.

"Exchange cures and poisons," Snape gestured wide. "Keeping in mind that I have a cure at the front, should your classmate fail you."

Draco ladled the poison Hermione had made into a cup and drank it without hesitation. She was clever; at least if he were to die by this poison, it'd be immediate.

The next thing he saw was her framed by the ceiling.

She was crying.

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed, thick and wet.

This had been why he'd sent the daisies; he didn't want to see her sob.

"The daisy fell in, and — "

"It amplified the rate of absorption." That was Snape, who hovered beside them.

Draco laughed. He couldn't help it.

They didn't go on a patrol that evening. He had to be escorted to the Hospital Wing, as the daisy had blended with the poison. He wasn't going to die from it but he had thrown up six times and rather wished that he had died. She didn't stop crying, not from the Potions classroom, not through the halls, not even as she sat beside him in the Hospital Wing.

"I'm fine Granger." Draco exhaled through his raw throat. "Either stop crying or leave."

Granger opted to leave.

When he closed his eyes he saw her, smile on her face and a daisy behind her ear.

**Friday — October 9th, 1998.**

Draco had recovered within the day and Granger avoided him. She buzzed past the Slytherin table to apologize, but she kept away otherwise. Everyone had heard about how she had tried to kill him in Potions, how the Golden Girl of Gryffindor had tried to do the school a favor. Or, if they weren't wrapped around her finger, they pitied Draco and how he'd trusted her, how she'd taken the daisy on purpose, she was smart, she had to have known.

But Draco didn't blame her. She didn't wear flowers in her hair and she wasn't malicious. If she wanted him dead, he'd be dead. He trusted her on that. But she kept to herself and avoided his eye and he hadn't realized how much he'd waited for her to speak to him, but he had.

But she didn't speak.

Not during History of Magic or Transfiguration, nor Charms or Arithmancy.

They passed one another in their dorms and spoke in the hours between Potions and patrols. That was the extent of their intimacy and Draco had been pleased with that. At least he had located her reason for misery each morning when the post failed to arrive. And he'd tried to fix it and almost gotten himself killed for his kindness. There was a metaphor in there somewhere, but he still tasted the ash and daisies when he closed his mouth.

Friday afternoon, after Charms, he tailed her out of the classroom.

She had her attention buried deep in her satchel so she hadn't noticed his approach.

"Hermione," he said, because she'd called him Draco since he'd gotten back to school.

With how bright her eyes were, her smile, he wished he'd stuck to Granger for her name.

"You haven't been to Hogsmeade yet, have you," Draco said, his voice sharp in the silence.

Hermione stood in the corridor, with an expression like she might run if given the chance. "I've been too busy, with N.E.W.T.s. No reason to go really, I don't want sweets or tea," she rattled off reason, but it hadn't been the question.

"I've been meaning to go."

"Oh," Hermione smiled, her smile tart. "You should then."

Draco parted his lips but stayed silent. "I will."

"Good," Hermione's brow furrowed. "Sorry again about the daisy."

"No more sorry than I am, believe me." And he left her in the corridor. He skipped patrol and she didn't seek him out. Rodger got back late, complained about Hermione, about how she'd snatched him up to take Draco's place. About how Draco needed to pull his weight, that just because he had been sick wasn't an excuse.

Draco watched Rodger with careful attention. He wondered if he were to dismember the boy if he'd start with his feet and work upwards, or begin with his fingers. He pulled him apart with his eyes and any shred of confidence Rodger had melted away as he slipped into his half of the room.

**Sunday — October 11th, 1998.**

Astoria sat across his lap, her weight against the balls of her feet and her face level with his. She had wanted to see the Head Dormitory and he had obliged, but he was a fucking idiot because he'd not followed the thread of her logic. She asked about his room, because it must be nice to have a private room, and he'd agreed. And he sat with his back against his headboard, not sure how he'd wound up with her in his lap.

Inattention, that was it.

She nipped at his neck and he tightened his grip on her hair. She stopped, at least clever enough to pick up the cue. Her eyes watered as she smiled wider, a dare between her lips, but Rodger slammed through the door so hard his divider shuddered.

" — her!"

From the grit and the tension, that had been the last shred of a fight.

Fantastic.

Draco grabbed Astoria across her plump face, to keep her quiet. He fumbled with his wand to ward the curtains, as he'd not had a reason to charm against sound. He didn't snore and liked to wake easily. He didn't like to be in soundless spaces, it was worse than clocks. But the room softened around them, so they could still hear the ripple of Rodger through the room as he huffed and puffed as if his life was so difficult.

"You have to do patrols, Rodger."

That was Hermione.

"She's unreliable," Rodger sniped back, another slam.

"She's the Head Girl for Hufflepuff, perhaps just speak with her — "

"Oh, sure, like you and Malfoy have such a good rapport."

"He hasn't had the easiest time adjusting."

"Hermione, he's killed people, he's a fucking Death Eater as if you can possibly justify wanting to be around him. You of all people…"

If Hermione said anything, he missed it.

"Can't you just shove Avery onto him, so we can patrol together?" Rodger sounded desperate and Draco had half a mind to lunge out, to defend himself. But he didn't. It didn't matter who he did his patrols with.

"I'll speak to McGonagall, if it means that much to you."

They were quieter now, closer. Astoria had begun to grind against him as if this were the time for such a thing and he didn't know what to do. He didn't fancy the idea of bursting into a conversation half-dressed and half-hard. It wouldn't make his case compelling as to why he should be allowed to be alone with Hermione. It'd make everything a thousand times worse. The door clicked and he heard the shapeless direction of footsteps. He flipped Astoria so he was between her thighs.

He still isn't sure if they fucked or not. He hadn't been paying attention. He hadn't finished, if they had, so he hoped they hadn't. For her sake, for his. She never mentioned that night, good or bad.

All he could remember was the shapeless anger about Rodger.

**Wednesday — October 21st, 1998.**

Hermione continued to watch the owl post but it was worse now. She'd had a taste of daisies and the empty air was all that greeted her.

Draco kept quiet through classes and couldn't look at her through Potions. She left him in his silence. There was something stuck to her tongue though, there must be. She rolled her gaze over to him, her lips wide and her eyes wider, then nothing. She'd snap her mouth shut and resume her reading. Snape had asked them to sit out this week, as they were doing another poison and cure session. He didn't trust either of them, even though it had been her mistake he'd almost died.

(Or his mistake, if you looked at the big picture.)

Draco arrived at the dungeons. As his gaze landed on Rodger, he decided that he'd work his way up from the boy's feet, to pull out each toenail then each bone. He'd feed them to him, watch him chew through his own offal and guts, and slowly, so slowly get to his head.

"Evening Malfoy," Rodger said, like the fucking idiot he was. "Seems we've been put together for patrols."

"As if you can possibly justify wanting to be around me. You of all people..." An echo of Rodger's words.

Rodger didn't speak for the rest of their patrol.

By the time he got back to the dorms, Granger was strewn in her usual spot in front of the fireplace. He let Rodger go to their room untouched, though he wanted to ram his head straight into the wall until he stopped moving. But he hovered in the shadows afforded by the low light. The bronze clock above the fireplace ticked, tocked, ticked, tocked.

"You could have told me," Draco said, his voice strict.

Hermione jumped clear off the couch. As if the point was made for him.

"If you didn't feel safe around me. If you didn't want to be around me. You could have said."

"It wasn't my idea," Hermione went red in the low light. Always red. Her gaze shifted to the dorms, her face full of the blood he'd seen on her forearm several months ago. "I thought you'd rather not be with me anyway. You never talk."

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. "Neither did you."

Hermione swallowed, her throat bobbed with visible tension.

"You have a habit of speaking without thinking," Draco added, unsure how to phrase it. "I assumed if you had things you wanted to say, you'd say them."

"I didn't want to annoy you."

"You don't."

Hermione stared as if she expected him to lunge for her. And part of him wanted to, though for perhaps different reasons. He wanted to shake her, to make her be honest, to see her eyes up close and to watch her expression shift, to see the fear and to see the tears. Perhaps if he saw it, that fear of him, he'd be able to give her space. The same way he'd felt when she'd flinched on the train, how she'd pulled away from him.

"I asked you," Draco's throat strained. "If you'd been to Hogsmeade."

"Yes?"

Draco stared at her as if she were from another plane of existence.

"And I told you I hadn't yet."

Draco's lips worked in small, misshapen circles. "I was asking if you'd want to go with me, to Hogsmeade."

He might as well have slapped her from how her expression contorted.

"There's a bookstore there," he hesitated. "It opened in the wake of the war, I doubt you've seen it. My mother mentioned it to me."

"I'm with — "

"If I was asking you on a date, I'd ask you on a date," Draco said, his voice flat. "I asked if you wanted to go to Hogsmeade, don't pick your wedding dress, Granger."

"Why?"

"Has Weasley come yet?" Draco said, his voice distant. "To visit?"

"He sent flowers."

Draco remained cool, his expression lazy. "The daisies?"

Hermione smiled and he'd watched it happen. The corners of her lips tucked up and away, her gaze diverted. It was the same expression she must have had when she received them. He didn't correct her. There was no point. Instead he locked eyes with the bronze clock as the second hand inched across the face.

"I'll check out the bookstore," Hermione said, her voice thin. "Maybe I'll see you there."

Draco sneered through the firelight and went to his bedroom.

His mouth tasted of ash and daisies.


	5. Chapter 5

**Friday — October 23th, 1998.**

Patrol with Rodger was a chore and a bore all mixed into one. Draco felt his skin crack and his eyes sink into his head. As it wasn't a matter of silence, rather, it was endless chatter. He spoke about his summer and how he'd pieced together his family's home and something about charity. It was a special sort of torture, the kind that Draco couldn't have even thought of if given a month and a million Galleons — no, the mundanity within which Rodger thrived was seemingly endless.

Like if Professor Binns had more to say about fewer things.

"And, of course, I'll be playing for Ravenclaw — the Team Captain, as you can imagine," he continued. "I expect you not to go easy on me, no, I bet you'll be eager to use the opportunity to show off one of your expensive brooms. Well, I can tell you, while they are fancy and new, you cannot buy tactics."

"Nor tact," Draco drawled so softly that Rodger paused. But he didn't seem to have processed it, as he continued, unaffected.

Draco remained affected.

By the time they finished their round, they arrived at the Fourth floor corridor that led to their dorm. Rodger split off for the room with such speed that Draco had to laugh. As if he were the one eager to escape. Good. It allowed Draco the chance to slip onto the balcony as he did most nights. He would have to go to Hogsmeade over the weekend to stock up, as he'd gone from two cigarettes a week to at least a pack.

It was an excuse to get outside and to be alone, along with the natural relief of the tobacco. It had been cured with restorative herbs and an agent that mitigated the off-scent that carried with the cigarettes. It was still there on his fingers and breath, but he spent far more on a better product. He could make shapes from the smoke if he was bored. He would often form little Quidditch players or dragons, silly things, but only when he'd had liquor along with the cigarettes.

He'd been so determined he'd not noticed the girl on the stone wall, her back against the building. Hermione, he realized with a low breath of relief. She was tucked against a small inner wall, an alcove that sat against the ornate window and a planter. Whatever plants had been here before had died, probably during the summer or the war, as there was far more to do for the grounds at large. It made sense a few flowers had died.

"Hermione?" He said, his voice light and gentle, so as to not scare her over the edge. She wasn't even close to the edge, of course, but she jumped at the strangest of things.

But she didn't turn. She had parchment in her lap and her fist balled up against her mouth.

Draco thought about going back inside, to avoid the situation whatever it may be.

Bravery wasn't his thing; it was hers.

"Sorry," she exhaled, breathy and thin. "I'll go, you can have this — sorry," she repeated as she slid from the wall.

"Why are you always crying?" He asked, his voice sharp.

Hermione brushed past him and he caught her elbow. He hadn't meant to but in the firelight her eyes sparked gold and his hand shot out. She didn't strain away. She pivoted and buried her face into his chest and sobbed, loudly, as if the fist against her mouth had been all that had kept her quiet. She cried into his shirt and was committed to the act as if she'd forgotten she was Hermione Granger and that he was Draco Malfoy.

It was just her, a girl crying, and him — just him.

The shock wore away and he thought of his mother. A strange thought, no doubt, but she cried often. He didn't have words for her, or for Hermione. He set a hand onto her shoulder, his right hand, to squeeze her shoulder. When she didn't flinch or shove him away he let the hand shift, beneath that awful bulk of her hair, so warm he might die from exposure to it, then across her shoulders. And he stood one arm around her, his chin on her head.

Perhaps she'd mistaken him for someone else, but he'd allow her this moment.

She clearly needed it.

As the shifts and sobs subsided she pulled back, not enough to be away from him but enough that her nose wasn't impaled into his chest. He hadn't minded, he was shell-shocked. He felt halfway into a dream, but his dreams were always awful. They were full of dead bodies and snakes, people being eaten by them, venom, vines, thorns. He looked down at her in the low light of the moon and saw red.

Red eyes, red cheeks, red lips where she'd chewed a split into the plush of them.

She'd taste of copper, were he a stupider man.

Yet he stood, impassive, borderline unaffected. At least as he looked at her. He tried to be neutral, to show no anger or sadness or anything, as if she'd asked him the time. He didn't know what else to do, she had flung herself at him in tears when he'd tried to check on her. Anything felt like the wrong thing to do.

"I'm sorry," she patted his shirt which was wet against his skin. Her fingertips paused on the spot as she sobered to him, to them, the wet mask of her tears impressed upon him.

"Did something happen?" He asked his tone even.

The parchment in her fist turned to a leaf in the wind as she gestured with it. "I asked Ron to come down, I've asked for weeks, and he keeps saying next week, next week, what's the rush — "

"Is there a rush?" Draco asked as if he were a therapist. Which was amusing to think on given how he'd benefit from a sit-down with anyone, to talk through how his hands weren't his hands and how he often felt like he wasn't in his body. That he was just a point of consciousness, being pushed forward by a meat wreck that shook when it was too warm or too cold. He reached down to catch a thick splay of her hair, to shove it from her face. It caught in her lips and lashes, comical and spattering, and she waved a hand to detangle herself.

To pull away from him.

"No," her voice was hot.

He'd said the wrong thing.

What was that, less than ten words?

A record. He was so good at setting records.

"If there's no rush then why are you upset that he keeps pushing back the dates?"

"Because," Hermione said, her voice heavy with intonation. She had a way of turning two syllables into four, even when her lip was split open and her face was bright red. "He should want to see me, shouldn't he. If we're dating. It isn't as if it's impossible for him to visit, to Apparate or come by, to come to see me, to come to check on me."

He preferred when she'd been face-deep in his chest and sobbing.

"It isn't so much to ask, is it? To want your boyfriend to come and see you? It's been almost two months since I've seen him, and it's so easy for him to visit."

Draco stood, his hands in his pockets as he turned over his wand and his cigarettes. He didn't want to weigh in, to defend Weasley or agree with Hermione. He didn't feel comfortable with her being Hermione, either, but she'd called him Draco in no uncertain terms and he felt it was strange to hold her at arm's length by name if she refused to do the same. And yet, he wished he had. He wished she had stormed inside and pouted and fussed.

"I don't know why I'm complaining to you," Hermione snorted, the flats of her hands rubbed against her face. She made a snotty sound as she exhaled, her head tipped back.

He watched her throat bob, teeth sharp against the inside of her cheek.

"Sorry to bother you," she said, her tone flat and childish as if she'd been made to apologize.

"I didn't say you were bothering me."

"You're just staring at me, not talking."

"I'm listening to you," Draco said, his voice level. "You seemed like you had things to say and I let you say them at your own pace."

Hermione glared at him as if she'd been tricked.

"Have you never had someone pay attention to you, to just listen to you when you speak?"

Hermione's mouth popped open but she closed it, the flat of her index finger against the cut on her lip. She tongued it as if to catch the blood. She worried her fingertip on the spot, over and over, as if it'd stop bleeding on its own.

Draco pulled out his wand and she stumbled back a step. He felt a rubber band snap from the soles of his feet to his heart as she stared at him, as if afraid of what he was about to do. "May I?" He gestured for her to come closer, his fingers extended for her chin. "You're going to end up swollen."

"Why do you care?"

"How else will I listen to you complain if your lips are swollen shut?" Draco smirked through white teeth, eyes dark in the shadows of the moon. He slipped his fingers beneath her chin and cast a small healing spell, one she must know. He watched her run the gamut, from the searing pain to gentle tingle. He tapped her chin up with the crook of his index finger then tapped her nose as he stepped back. It was something his father did to him whenever he'd get scrapes as a child, a gentle gesture than something to set you on edge.

His mother would kiss his wounds better, from scraped knees to bruised elbows. He thought that may not be ideal given any number of reasons, least of all her tear-stained cheeks.

Hermione's hand hovered by her face, still red in the dark. She dipped her head and made a beeline for the widespread glass doors.

"I'll be in Hogsmeade over the weekend."

She paused, though she didn't look back at him.

"Maybe I'll see you there."

And she left.

Draco lingered on the balcony, smoke shapes formed of Granians much like the ones his mother bred. They'd inherited them from his grandfather several years before when he'd died. Most of them had been tortured to death or used as fodder during the war. But the winged horses remained a step between mundane and magical. They didn't form specific shapes or patterns, just impressions. He didn't know why.

Anything to distract him from the strange feeling on his chest, where the wet patch began to dry.

**Sunday — October 24th, 1998.**

"I really want to go get lunch," Astoria whined, her hands interlocked on Draco's bicep.

"So get lunch."

"But you're taking your time, my love."

Draco felt a thick chill run down his spine. He squared his jaw and yanked his arm from her grasp.

She had sweet mittens on with a matched beanie and scarf. Her little pale face poked out amidst it like an adorable kitten and he wanted so badly to yank the beanie over her face altogether. She was sweet, of course. But she had this brattish edge to her, as if her sweetness could balance it out. She would whine at him if he lingered in the Library or try to draw him away from his homework with her own make-believe homework about anatomy.

And right now she had that defiant pout and lust-laden gaze as if she could use her gaze alone to disarm him.

"Aren't your friends off at the Three Broomsticks?"

"I can't go alone — "

"You should," Draco plucked a book from the shelf, a thick tome on cleaning spells for a modern witch. "I'm not hungry." He snapped it shut so loud that she jumped.

"But if I go alone, they'll ask about you…"

Draco looked at her with a deadpan distance behind his eyes. As if he didn't see her, as if she weren't there.

"They always say, oh, Draco's only using you, Draco doesn't care — "

"I don't."

"You do!"

Draco grabbed her face between the flats of his hands, gentle as he could manage. "What possible reason have you given me to care about you," he said, his voice as even as before. "Go."

He couldn't help but roll his eyes as she pulled back and broke into thick tears. She cried in such a way as to still be pretty, her face immobile while the tears flowed. It was like someone had turned the tap within her head and they gushed out. She said something, he didn't care to listen, and she left. He felt bad about it, more the situation at large. She was sweet and easy to be around, but so was a potted plant or a decorative vase. She was there or she wasn't, and she'd done as all girls do; she'd played sweet and easy until she thought she had him close enough to pull his strings.

And he'd cut the strings.

Love; what a joke.

He moved along the shelves, his fingers idle as he looked over the books. By the time Daphne got to him, he might feel bad. He'd be able to pretend he felt bad at least, and he'd apologize to her. But she had dogged along from the castle to Hogsmeade in spite of the fact he'd said he wanted to be alone. She had clung to him, nails in his calves and tears in her eyes. They weren't dating. They weren't anything. She was fine and easy, and one of dozens of other girls.

Girls he didn't want.

"I thought you might have it."

Draco leaned, his knee bent and his head tipped. He saw Granger with her giant halo of brown hair and red-tipped nose. She wore her winter wear early every year. She seemed to be cold all the time, which he found impossible given how hot she ran. He straightened his posture and dipped around the shelves. He kept a book of poetry flipped open as if he'd been in the midst of it.

"Yes, see, that author," she pointed to a ledger.

The staff at Quaesitum Vellum were older than Draco expected. They must be in their early hundreds with how their joints seemed frozen as they flipped each page. He was afraid they might die in the time it took for each page to settle or between breaths.

"Why I'm not sure…" the small woman with her fine grey hair in a tight bun said. She wore deep navy robes with silver trim like midnight woven into a garment. It seemed too formal to be a uniform — perhaps they were the owner. "The last book I saw of theirs… Was at least…"

To his surprise, Hermione listened with her full attention. She didn't fidget or fuss, she listened. It was perhaps the stillest and quiet he'd seen her outside of her patrols.

"I found it, 'Mione!"

Hermione turned to look at Draco, which struck him as odd. He'd not spoken. And then he was knocked, elbow to his shoulder. The hairs flared along the back of Draco's neck as he picked the clumsy gait and drawl of Weasley. Ronald, that is, the tallest one. So tall that his brains had been stretched thin. The flash of red hair and a long nose confirmed his morbid suspicion.

"Ah, sorry Malfoy," Weasley said, the least sorry he'd ever sounded in his miserable life.

Hermione lit up as Weasley approached, a thick book of old astronomy charts in hand. She accepted it with a wide smile as if it were Christmas.

Draco couldn't look away.

Was it miserable to compare the descent of Weasley's lips to Granger's of a body to the floor? He felt the same sick lurch in his stomach like he wanted to do something but it was too late to help. Instead, he stood, open poetry bookmarked with his thumb as he stared. He was at least collected enough to maintain polite horror, and so he stared, indifferent as if he were waiting for her to move out of the way.

Granger smiled at Draco past Weasley's bicep and he refused to return it.

He remained static, dead behind the eyes. He'd perfected the technique. He'd had plenty of practice. Not to mention the fact he didn't care. Of course, Weasley had shown up for her, she had sent him essays about school. Perhaps she had begged especially well in her last letter or Weasley had finally worked out the stakes.

They shifted so Granger could review the book her pet had brought her. Draco moved with mechanical precision, his hands were distant and his neck too warm. He didn't wait to speak to the shopkeeper, or to Granger. She hadn't tried to speak to him anyway. She'd looked straight through him. Of course. This was a series of moments, all these _of course_ moments, the sort you looked at and pieced together. He tossed the Galleons onto the front desk with a slim level of attention.

"Oh, that book is only two Galleons," she picked up the fifteen or so he'd thrown onto the desk.

"Keep it," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. He tucked it beneath his arm and made a beeline for the door. He didn't even know what book he'd bought, not really. Poetry. It was poetry. But he hadn't read it. He wasn't likely to either. It had just been the sort of book he had thought would be interesting to be found with.

He was going to leave.

He was.

"Malfoy."

"Ron," Granger said, her voice sharp. Identical to how she had sounded in Diagon Alley, though he had the advantage of independence. He didn't have to worry about his mother or what might happen to her.

"Oh, I hadn't noticed you, Weasley," Draco waved a hand as if he'd caught a bad smell. "Though it explains the stench."

"Throwing money around still works wonders, hm?" Weasley sneered, a pale imitation of the looks that Draco passed with ease.

"Interesting," Draco said, not interested in the least. "Is that a crime to tip? I suppose you wouldn't know, you're normally the one receiving the handout."

"Having money doesn't mean shit if you're a Death Eater."

Draco smiled, the fine line of his teeth exposed while his eyes remained like a dagger poised to strike. His gaze slid from Weasley to Granger, who had puffed in the heat of the store. She looked mortified, though he couldn't place why. The store had fallen silent, however, and the patrons had all turned to stare at him.

"You should be locked up, you and your father — "

"You work for the Ministry, do you not?" Draco maintained his tone. "I imagine if you take issue with a ruling, you have the correct avenues to discuss that. Instead of public shaming," he waved a loose hand around the store.

Weasley had turned red to his ears.

"Actually, if we're in the spirit of dredging personal issues out," Draco said, his voice loud. The people in the store remained fixed on them out of morbid curiosity. "Send your girlfriend more letters. I don't want to have to comfort her in your absence any more than I have already."

Draco didn't watch for their reactions, didn't care to.

That hadn't come out as he'd meant it.

But he made his point.

When he got back to the Head Dorm, he skimmed through the poetry book and scrawled a note with Granger's name on it. He walked over to the small stacks of books she'd set up for Avery and Rodger, then to his ten-book high stack. He collected his share and kept the poetry book, too. He carted them all into his room and warded his bed, desperate to avoid the situation he'd left behind.

He shouldn't have said that.

He didn't care that much.

He really didn't.

**Saturday — October 31st, 1998.**

Draco didn't speak to Hermione again after that. Rather, she didn't speak to him. She gave little more than affirmative sounds when he asked her questions in Potions and she wasn't in the dorm lounge any longer. Her snacks vanished along with her decorative mugs, and at first he thought she might have moved out altogether. But he saw her between classes when she'd dip into and out of her dorm room. The books she had left for Avery and Rodger vanished. He didn't know if she'd taken them back or if she'd just not added more — he opted for a lack of new books to recommend.

He used the time to read the books she had left him. And he read them voraciously, without hesitation. They were fiction, which surprised him, and centered around ridiculous romances of the nineteenth century. All Muggle literature too, which struck him as strange, but he had read many Wizarding novels. He would ask her why she'd recommended books about balls and moors, of dark figures and sharp women, but she hadn't spoken to him.

He couldn't work out if it was his fault or Weasley's; he took on the blame, as it was easier to settle on.

Pumpkins had begun to decorate the tables until they became so large a First year had climbed inside one. They were warded and hovered so now they hung in the hallways with grim features carved into them. Peeves dropped them on several students. But they remained, floating and ominous. Candy and enchanted tiny bats floated around if one was quick enough to catch them. The bats were licorice and Draco caught them for the fun of it.

But Saturday morning he passed by Hermione, who was asleep on the couch.

He paused, confused.

She had a blanket and pillows. She was in her pajamas too, dressed for bed. As if she'd intended to sleep on the couch, by choice. As if she didn't have a room.

Avery appeared, her hair trussed up and a toothbrush loose in her mouth.

Rodger appeared after her, dressed for class despite it being a weekend.

Draco blinked.

Rodger sprinted for their shared dorm while Avery stood, her fake blonde hair yellower than before. "Morning Draco," she said, an easy smile on her lips.

"Did Rodger do a patrol of your room last night," Draco said, his tone dead.

Avery laughed like that was a joke but her red blush between the white foam and yellow hair said enough. She walked over to the center door which was used to access the other rooms. She spun the dial and walked through once she'd found her destination. All Draco could hear was the easy chatter of a girls' dorm on a Saturday morning.

But the screams and yelps sent Granger flying, her wand out and her eyes wild.

The door snapped behind Avery and Draco was left, confused and defenseless.

They stood across from one another, her gaze narrowed at him while her hand shook.

"Did you sleep on the couch?"

"I, yes, I suppose I did," Hermione turned as red as Avery had been.

"They kicked you out to shag." Draco rubbed his face. "I thought they hated one another."

"They do."

Draco felt he might commit several Unforgiveable Curses if left unattended.

"It's nice, I suppose, that they worked through it, but I worked so hard to fix their flitty patrol schedule, and Avery told me she was just shy, she didn't want to be around Rodger alone, you see," Hermione crumbled, her stance a different sort of defensive as she scrunched her hands by her face. "And they didn't tell me to leave, not exactly. I saw Rodger sneak in, and I couldn't stay in there, I mean, I should have told someone, but I had patrolled all night and re-written my History of Magic essay for Monday three times before then... They were chosen for a reason, and they're adults, and what, am I going to run around the school and check every bedroom every night, out to peep on — "

Draco closed the gap, more so they weren't shouting at one another. Or rather, she wasn't shouting at him.

"I don't want to spend my N.E.W.T.s. being the Prude Patrol, out to catch people and — I'm so tired, and I'm so sick of all the — everyone's so wrapped up in how they feel, you know, I just want to study and to do well, and it's okay to be upset or to like people, of course, that's okay, but I cannot be expected to police everyone else, every night, I refuse."

"Prude Patrol?" Draco echoed, a slant to his smile.

Hermione's lips quivered.

"No one's expecting you to catch everything that goes on in the school. That isn't your job."

"But it is! I'm Hermione Granger, I'm the Head Girl, I fought Voldemort, I can do everything, can't I!" She threw her hands up. "I have more patrols than twice a week, you know, I took on an extra set because one of the Prefects kept missing their nights, and I have to run a study group for Second years, the ones who didn't attend their full year last year, and they — they look at me like I can't do anything wrong, but I do everything wrong. Everything."

Draco thought he might cry on her behalf as she paced back and forth.

"And Ron! The bookstore, I meant to, oh, I meant to say I was sorry, he shouldn't have said that — "

"No," Draco waved his hands, to stop her. "Stop."

Her throat tensed as if she'd said something wrong.

"Stop taking on everything. Especially his mistakes."

"But I was there, I should have — "

"What?" Draco said, his brows raised. "I am a Death Eater, Hermione. I have the Dark Mark. I went to trial and I worked alongside my father to make things right. They decided to let me go. It's done."

"But you aren't…"

"I am," his throat tensed. "I'm a Death Eater."

"How can you say it like it doesn't mean anything?"

Draco was adept at expressions. He had learned how to stamp down his brows and flatten his lips. He knew how to be impassive and unaffected. But he couldn't, not right now, not as she stood there as a flurry of red and brown, as if she had any idea. He yanked his sleeve up, his left sleeve. The Dark Mark was faint but not gone.

"You didn't choose it though," she added as if that were an excuse. "You wouldn't have if you'd had a choice…"

"It's my skin, Hermione." He moved closer as if to impress it upon her. He dug his fingers into it, to emphasize the shape. "The worst part of it was the fact it didn't hurt when they carved it into me. I was so numb, you know. Cruciatus for minutes at a time, over and over. My father wasn't at home you see, I got back from school, they were waiting."

Hermione fussed with her blanket, which had tangled around her middle when she'd stood.

"Getting the Mark is usually a point of pride, of celebration. It means you've earned it, usually. They kill a Muggle, use the fresh blood as part of the ink." He thumbed the mark as if it'd wipe off. "Ash from the Muggle's bones, blood, snake venom, the Dark Lord's blood, it's a whole thing."

She stepped back and he let her.

"The Dark Lord was kind enough to forgo the Muggle death part. I didn't have to kill anyone — no, he used my mother's blood instead and the bones of our head House Elf, Schratz. He was dead when I got home, but the blood, they took it from her in front of me," he smiled but it cracked in seconds. "Took a minute of her, crying. I counted the seconds on my grandfather's clock — he'd had his heart immortalized into a clock, as a grim reminder of time's passage or something stupid like that."

Hermione detangled herself from the blanket, which revealed her cartoon pajamas. He wanted to shut up, to let her wake up and to be alone. But he couldn't. Those stupid wide eyes, that still way she paid attention as if she might be quizzed on this later.

"And I counted. Sixty seconds, of her screaming, of her pain. And I have this to remind me of those sixty seconds where I could have made a different choice, I could have done something about it."

"It's not your fault," Hermione said, her voice fiercer than he'd ever heard it. "You were a child."

"And you were a child when you fought against the Dark Lord, more than once," he tugged his sleeve back into place, a nasty look shot at the clock above the fireplace. It ticked so loudly as if it were in his skull. "My point is, you have enough problems on your own. Don't make others your problems into your own. Don't take the blame for them, either."

Hermione watched his clothed arm and he wished he'd not brought it up. He should have accepted her apology and shut up.

"Did you take those books?"

He felt his breath catch.

"Did you like them?"

"They were entertaining enough. Interesting use of language. Perhaps a little lovelorn, not what I'd expect from you, Granger."

Hermione smiled a weak smile, the lack of sleep clear now in her weary features.

"I mean it."

She woke when he said that, a mixture of confused and alert.

"You aren't responsible for everyone you meet. You don't owe anyone anything."

Her watery smile said that she didn't agree, but she didn't argue aloud.

"And if you need a bed, there are three spare ones in my dorm," he jerked his head. "Rodger split the room down the middle. It's like two rooms in one."

Hermione stared at the floor, her hand poised by her mouth. She began to gather her blankets, tears in her eyes. He let her cry, left her to her thoughts. He had said too much and pushed too far. He wanted to gobble the words back up and slap himself over the head. He would have accepted his father's cane across the temple, in all honesty. Anything to right his stupidity.

"Draco," she said, her voice thin. "Thank you."

"For?"

Hermione smiled, her head dropped. "Caring."


End file.
